


Germinal

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Medical Experimentation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, this would definitely not get past an ethics committee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 10:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18193355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: “January 18th. 1996. Eleven thirty-five am. Commencing new trial on Number Four. Attempt one.”Reginald Hargreeves, frustrated at Number Four's lack of progress, attempts a different approach.Pre-canon. The beginning of Klaus' drug addiction.





	Germinal

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Reginald's POV and is a bit messed up. Klaus is 6 or 7 here.

 

“January 18th. 1996. Eleven thirty-five am. Commencing new trial on Number Four. Attempt one.”

 

Reginal Hargreeves clicks the Dictaphone off and looks down at his rebellious test subject. Who despite all the special training Reginald has lavished upon him still refuses to show any progress. In fact, positively refuses to acknowledge the dead, let alone control them as Reginald was hoping he might. Number Four is too ‘scared’. Well, Reginald has an idea of how they can fix that.

 

“Well Number Four,” he says briskly, “Shall we get on with it?”

 

Number Four is unusually docile today, not doubt because of his late-night training session at the mausoleum. He always emerges pale and trembling the next morning, more likely to reign in his cheek lest his training hours be increased. One of the few beneficial side effects and those sessions don’t appear to be producing the proper results. Hence Reginald’s new tactic.

 

Give the boy something to calm his damned nerves so that they can get some real data out of these sessions. If only he weren’t so fragile and sensitive: it reduces the amount of experiments that Reginald can perform, loath as he is to truly break the boy. No, gently does it. As grating as it is to have to go at this snail’s pace.

 

He places a small pill on his desk. Diazepam. Easy enough to procure in this day and age, but an effective enough anti-anxiety drug. At least until he can arrange something a little more esoteric once the experiment has progressed.

 

Number Four hesitantly moves to pick the pill up, slowly placing it in his mouth and swallowing reluctantly. He makes a face at the taste.

 

“Now boy. Concentrate. Are you more aware the ghosts around you?”

 

Number Four shrugs morosely, eyes fixed on the edge of the carpet. He never wants to look up, Number Four, or when he does, he’s always staring off into space and flinching. The dammed flinching. Reginald has tried to put a stop that that, but as his attempts only made things worse, he was forced to stop.

 

“Eyes front,” Reginald barks, “And answer the damned question.”

 

“No Sir,” the boy’s voice is so soft that Reginald can hardly hear it.

 

“Hmph.”

 

He’s not lying. Number Four’s unfortunate tendency to broadcast everything he’s thinking is at least marginally useful in this instant.

 

He picks up out an ornate pocket watch from his desk, and the two of them sit in silence for ten minutes or so, waiting for the drug to peak in. Reginald keeps a careful eye on the boy, making sure not to miss any nuance of emotion. He sways slightly as though dizzy but manages not to fall down. Well, the drug is working at least.

 

After twenty more minutes have passed, he snaps the watch shut. Evidentially nothing useful is going to happen today.

 

“You’re dismissed Number Four,” he says, “Report back here tomorrow at the same time.”

 

The boy turns to leave immediately, stumbling slightly as he goes.

Reginald switches the Dictaphone on.

 

“Attempt number one failed. Will repeat the experiment tomorrow with a higher concentration of diazepam. In the event of failure, I shall attempt increasing doses of oxycodone over the next two weeks.”

 

Really, Number Four was almost more trouble than he was worth. If his powers didn’t have to potential to control death itself… Reginald’s eyes drift over to look at Number Seven’s medication. But he really can’t afford two useless subjects.

 

 

**

 

“January 23rd. 1996. 12:45pm. Attempt five. Subject has been given 10mg of diazepam and 5mg of oxycodone. Attempts to abruptly increase the dose of oxycodone led to respiratory distress and vomiting. So we’re once again stuck with doing this the long way. 5 mg amphetamine added to try and balance out the drowsiness. And maybe force the little idiot to pay attention to the real world for once in his life.”

 

Reginald places the three pills in front of the boy, who takes them without complaint. He’s stopped wincing at the taste at least.

 

He’s not holding out a lot of hope, if he’s being honest. The only thing the previous experiments have managed to do is make a mess of his carpet. Number Four hasn’t shown any improvement at all despite his nightly training sessions.

 

This time though… Something’s different. No more than five minutes in and the boy is looking around the room with dopey expression on his face.

 

“They’re gone…” he whispers, then claps a hand to his mouth. It’s too late though.

 

“Who’s gone?” Reginald demands.

 

“The-the ghosts Sir,” Number Four says, “I can’t see them anymore.”

 

He’s smiling like an imbecile and gently swaying from side to side. He laughs, high and childish, and spins around, losing his balance halfway through and falling to the ground with a thump.

 

“Well this was a useless endeavour,” Reginald says. Five days. Wasted. He’s managed to achieve the exact opposite of what he set out to do. He sighs, looking down at Number Four. He’s lying on his side, still laughing like a savage.

 

Reginald steps over him and heads toward the door. Let Grace clean this mess up.

 

**

 

The next few weeks are the worst in Number Four’s life. And that’s saying something. His heart hammers in his chest, sometimes skipping beats, other times weighing him down until he longs to claw it out. He hands shake in training and does so poorly that Number One singles him out for extra hand-to-hand combat.

 

The worst of it though… the absolute worst is that the dead come back, crowding around his vision, louder than ever. After a few blissful hours they’re back and Number Four can’t handle it. He can’t.

 

He thinks longingly of the pills that made everything go quiet, hidden in Father’s study. He dreams about them sometimes, the rare nights that he manages to get to sleep. Dreams of the quiet. One quick swallow.

 

One day, he vows to himself. One day he’ll get the ghosts to leave.


End file.
